Are You Happy Now, Molly Hooper?
by MadAuntieKeith
Summary: Three days after John's wedding, and Sherlock's mind palace is in total disarray with thoughts of friends and a nagging feeling of insecurity. Maybe all he needs is Molly Hooper to put his mind at ease? Sherlolly with platonic Johnlock, rated T because I'm paranoid! To be continued with more HLV based chapters (although I consider this story a UA!) Trigger warning: some drug use.
1. Chapter 1: I Don't Count

**Hello, everyone!  
><strong>

**I know I promised my followers and fellow Leico-lovers a New Year's fic ages ago, but honestly the goings been slow because my mind has been consumed by the force of nature that is Sherlock! So I am deeply, _deeply _sorry for the delay, but I literally can't keep my mind focused on anything but the feels and the extreme cuteness of Sherlolly! (Yes, I ship Sherlolly. I mean, I kind of ship Johnlock too, but nowhere near as intensely. Not much of a reason, I just don't really see at as much as other people do. Like I think they're soulmates, but not really in a sort of romantic/sexual way? I don't know, it's just one of those weird things where I just don't see the ship as much as other people (I mean I know they flirt a bit but frankly I think if you don't get a little gay with your best friends then you're not close enough!). If you ship Johnlock though I respect your opinion and completely understand- there's plenty of stuff to support the ship! I just find myself hooked to the Sherlolly ship like a barnacle!)**

**Anyway, so here's a Sherlolly fic! It's probably too long for it's own good, and the writing's probably a bit clunky. This was weird for me to write because pretty much all of my fics on here have been about two awkward American teenage demigods, so writing about the sociopath detective and his pathologist is quite a departure from the norm!**

**So, here you go! Hope you like it- I decided to write this as an alternative follow-up to the Sign of Three because I just know that His Last Vow is going to break our hearts! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters, and the song lyrics to "December 1963 (Oh What a Night)" and "Is You Is or Is You Ain't My Baby?" belong to the Four Seasons and Louis Jordan!**

**(Warning: contains TEH and TSoT spoilers!)**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Are You Happy Now, Molly Hooper?<span>  
><strong>

Three days, eight hours and seventeen minutes since the wedding, and Sherlock Holmes hadn't moved a muscle.

That was inactive even by his standards.

He could count every passing second by the insistent ticking of the clock, reverberating in the eerie calm of 221B Baker Street. The only accompanying sound he heard was the quiet shuffling of Mrs Hudson scraping several of his experiments off the good plates and into the bin. He thought about snapping at her, but he was a little too preoccupied trying to sort rooms in his mind palace that he'd hoped not to have to reorganise, along with some that never should have existed.

As much as he disliked having to use his mind palace for personal experiences and acquaintances, he was running out of ways to resolve his internal struggle. He'd decided that trying to rationalize and arrange his feelings like facts seemed the simplest solution- although however simple it seemed in theory, it was proving much more difficult in practise. He was doing his best, but try as he might the contents of the rooms seemed to bleed into each other incessantly. He closed his eyes, stepping into the warm glow of the first room.

A small room, built for two but with room for one more. John and Mary were at the centre, standing side by side, always at the forefront of the younger Holmes brother's mind. Sherlock crossed the room, treading carefully over the collected evidence of their time together- the endless blog posts, the photos of too many failed relationships (he cringed inwardly as he remembered past exchanges with John's numerous girlfriends with embarrassment. Clearly his scathing remarks and obliviousness had not been helpful), the frankly excessive array of jumpers scattered on the chairs and across the floor.

He froze halfway across as he came face to face with Mary. She smiled, delicate lines crinkling at her eyes as she reached up and straightened his jacket, her knuckles brushing his chest as she smoothed his lapels. Sherlock felt his mouth twitching up into a smile in return- that had been happening more and more frequently of late. He saw John shifting behind her, and looked up with a grin on his face.

John smiled back, wrapping his arms around Mary from behind, his hands sliding down to rest on the swollen curve of her belly. Sherlock could have sworn that hadn't been there before. He watched as Mary's hands dropped from his chest and came to rest on top of John's, their intertwined fingers cradling the now unmistakable bulge beneath the pale blue cotton of her blouse.

Sherlock met their contented smiles with one of his own, but brushed passed them, his eyes turning misty as they flickered around the snug but spacious room. His earlier deduction was correct- there was room for one more. Just not for him.

He thought he glimpsed Mycroft strolling along the opposite wall, swinging his umbrella nonchalantly as his voice from almost seven months previously rang out coldly across the warm room.

"He's got on with his life."

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, watching as the phantom vision of his brother faded from sight. Trust Mycroft to show up when he wasn't invited.

Sherlock turned away from the disappearing outline of his sibling, trying to vanquish his unwanted words from his mind palace. As much as he hated to give his callous brother credit for anything, he had to admit that in this case Mycroft had a point.

John didn't need him anymore. Of course they would still be friends- John might visit occasionally, Mary and the baby in tow, but nothing would ever be quite the same. Their relationship had to have a different dynamic from now on, Sherlock could hardly drag him out on dangerous cases if he had a family to get back to. Sherlock liked Mary, and of course he would do his level best to like any child of John's, but things would never be the same.

He felt the room he stood in temporarily morph, the empty space filling with bright lights and people as his mind recreated the wedding reception. He saw Mary's wedding dress flickering across the polished floorboards as John pulled her away across the floor, casting another beam in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock smiled after them, waiting until they were lost in the crowd to allow his face to fall.

Sometimes he detested the way his mind could recall all the tiniest things. He remembered too well, and now he had to live it again.

The very moment he realised John and Mary were moving on with their lives.

He cast his eyes around the room, glancing between couples and friends and relatives dancing together, laughing and smiling, oblivious to the consulting detective standing alone at the centre. He found himself scanning the crowd hopefully, perhaps in a desperate bid to find Janine or another familiar face who might like to dance. He caught sight of her and took a step closer, only to feel his smile fade as he noticed that she already had a partner. The very partner he'd suggested to her earlier during his frantic speech- clearly he'd done his job a little too well.

He crept between the dancers, making his way back to the stage and carefully sliding his sheet music into a pristine envelope. He left it perched on the music stand- with a bit of luck someone would find it by the end of the night and hand it over to Dr and Mrs Watson. Sherlock was tempted to find them and give it to them himself, but for some reason he found the idea of coming face to face with them again tonight somewhat daunting. Besides, he didn't want to bother them on their wedding night. They deserved at least one night to be happy and carefree, just this once.

He made his way back through the crowd, the music pounding in his eardrums. Across the room he caught a glimpse of yellow, and turned his head to look as he walked past.

Molly.

She was dancing, the ridiculous bow in her hair bouncing up and down with every movement. He wasn't sure how, but for whatever reason she made the ludicrous accessory look good. Attractive, even. But the brightness of the yellow paled in comparison to her smile, those thin lips he'd made fun of so many times previously lighting the room as she beamed.

He couldn't help the knot in his stomach when she turned that smile to Tom.

Tom was far from perfect. Though Sherlock refrained from voicing his opinions out loud out of respect for Molly, anyone could see that Tom wasn't smart enough for her. He struggled to imagine the type of conversations they might have with no one but each other for company. How much interest did he show in her work? If he did ask her about it, how frequently did she have to simplify or even completely omit the aspects he wouldn't be able to grasp? Was she really happy?

His mind buzzed with questions as he made his way to the door, trying and failing to block out the residual memory of the music, feeling each lyric strike a chord deep inside him.

"_Oh, what a night!_

_Why'd it take so long to see the light?_

_Seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right,_

_What a lady, what a night…"_

He vaguely wondered if the Four Seasons had ever considered the possibility that their upbeat dance number might only serve to exacerbate someone's internal crisis of conscience. Probably not. As he reached the exit, he felt the memory shift slightly. Instead of carrying straight on out the way he had that night, he turned to look back.

Molly was still dancing, her back to him, the lights shining against her yellow dress, the ridiculous bow still swaying.

He caught sight of John and Mary, dancing close and laughing, gradually disappearing into the crowd. He saw Tom, looking at Molly with unmistakable adoration in his eyes. It was no less than she deserved.

"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper," Sherlock whispered, the slightest smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

As soon as the words left his mouth, she turned around. Their eyes met across the crowded room. Her bopping slowed slightly and she frowned, her dark brown eyes flickering from him to the door, concern evident in her expression. Sherlock met her gaze, his brow furrowing. He didn't remember this part.

After a moment, his sad smile returned. "Of course you see me, Molly Hooper. It's always you."

She smiled at him, but the sadness in her eyes betrayed her. She only whispered, but Sherlock heard it across the room as if she were standing right beside him.

"I don't count."

Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he could speak he felt the room slip away, the music fading to a broken hum as the memory collapsed. The lights merged with the faces and voices of the people, sliding together in an incomprehensible mess as he felt the familiar pull back to reality. He heard a voice calling his name.

The last thing he saw was that preposterous yellow bow.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Part One: I Don't Count<span>  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"Sherlock!"<p>

The consulting detective blinked several times, clearing his vision as he turned his gaze upwards to the stern face of Mrs Hudson.

He masked his shock immediately, being careful to keep his voice sounding as bored as possible. "Can I help you, Mrs Hudson?"

She tut-tutted, placing another cup of tea by his side and removing the untouched mug from the previous night.

"You can start by helping yourself for once," she said, giving him a meaningful look. He raised an eyebrow quizzically, waiting for her to elaborate.

She sighed, picking up his phone from the table and dropping it into his lap. "People have been trying to call you for three days, Sherlock. Everyone's worried- it's about time you called back and put their minds at ease. You can't just hide away from the rest of the world, it's not healthy!"

Sherlock pointedly ignored the phone in his lap, picking up his violin and plucking the strings thoughtfully. "Nonsense. I'm not hiding- merely taking some time to myself. My mind palace is in terrible disarray, what better way to utilise the free time now John and Mary are away on Sex Holiday than to organise it?"

Mrs Hudson crossed her arms severely. "Honeymoon, Sherlock Holmes, mind your language! If you want to fester away in here that's fine by me, but at least tell people you're all right."

Sherlock glared at her, laying down his violin. "Why should I? I've never had to inform anyone of my extended periods of absence before, why should they pick now to worry about me?"

She picked up the tray with the cold tea, casting him a concerned look as she left with one parting sentence.

"Because you left the wedding early…"

Sherlock's eyes followed her as she made her exit, opening his mouth to speak but finding nothing to say. He turned his eyes down to the phone, his finger flicking across the surface to bring the screen to life. Seventeen texts, five missed calls, three voicemails.

He thumbed through the texts, barely glancing at each one individually. Fourteen of them were from John. The first one, sent at 9:46 on the night of the wedding simply asked where he was, concern evident in his wording. The rest of them followed a similar pattern, each one gaining a few more swearwords and exclamation marks than was strictly necessary. The text from Mary contained a similar question, only she'd elected to end her text with a smiley face in an attempt to set a friendlier tone. It made a change from the string of profanities he was receiving from John. The final two messages were from Lestrade, confirming that the Mayfly man was safely behind bars and awaiting trial. He was also asking if Sherlock would come down to the station to answer some questions, but even from the way the text was written you could tell it was a forlorn hope.

Both of the missed calls were from John, as were two of the voicemails. In the first message he slurred his words slightly. Sherlock checked the time of the call and realised it must have been made after the reception- clearly John had had a few too many by this point. The call ended with a few mumbled swearwords before Mary apparently snatched the phone from his hand, muttered a quick apology and asked Sherlock to call them back before hanging up. In the second message John sounded more coherent, and Sherlock deduced from the background noises of announcements, small wheels on vinyl flooring and muffled conversations in multiple languages that they were at the airport the following morning, preparing for their flight to the Bahamas. The call ended abruptly when their gate was announced, and John told Sherlock to take care of himself, promising to drop in when they got back.

Sherlock sighed, selecting the next message and expecting another rant from John. He wanted to reply and put his friends' minds at ease, but he wasn't quite sure what he'd say. Besides, the last thing they'd want is for him to call them on their romantic getaway.

He hit play on the last message, bracing himself for another worried ramble from John.

"Sherlock?"

He caught his breath, surprised to hear Molly's gentle voice from the speaker. He checked the time of the message, realising with a jolt that it had been left today at seven thirty, barely an hour previously. He stayed perfectly quiet, wondering what she could possibly be calling to say.

"Sherlock, are you okay? I know you're probably going to say you are, but, well, I just wanted to check…"

He could hear the air crackling in the speakers as she took a deep breath.

"I saw you leaving early."

His eyes widened slightly. So she _had _turned to look- he had started to think that was just his imagination.

"Look, I don't expect you to tell me what's wrong. I don't expect you to tell me anything, to be honest but… Well, I'm here. If you need me. I know, I know, why would you need me? But I just thought I'd offer because, well, what with John being away I thought you might need someone to talk to."

Sherlock tried very hard to ignore the strange feeling in his chest. He bit down on his lip and listened closely as she wrapped up the message.

"Well, that's all I wanted to say… Just call me if you need to, all right? I mean, you can come and see me if you prefer- I'm in the morgue basically all day today, I don't expect you to leave your fortress of solitude or anything but… just let me know you're okay? Everyone's worried. Well, talk to you soon. Bye."

The line hung open a few seconds before she hung up and the sound went dead. Sherlock listened blankly to the heavy silence for a few more seconds, trying unsuccessfully to marshal his thoughts into some kind of coherent form while simultaneously trying to quash the curious fluttering sensation in his stomach. His logical mind started analysing her words, her tone of voice, every individual inflection.

Unbeknownst to his logical mind, his physical body was already out the door.

* * *

><p>Molly stood over the gurney, filling in another in a sea of forms as she inspected the body and its physical injuries. A simple enough case- male, mid-fifties, hit by a speeding car while crossing the road. Obviously the poor man hadn't taken enough care to check the road for traffic.<p>

Despite the apparent simplicity of the situation, Molly found herself searching for non-existent injuries, maybe the smallest scratch or bruise that might suggest that there was more to the man's death than a simple hit and run. The type of miniscule detail that anyone could miss.

Sherlock would know.

Her hand hesitated over the form, her eyes glazed slightly as her thoughts turned once again to the consulting detective. She used to think about him in moments of trouble- think about the way his coat swept out behind him, the way his steely blue eyes shone when there was a mystery to be solved, the way he ruffled his hair or straightened his scarf.

But recently all those images had been replaced by one memory she couldn't shake off.

Sherlock, his face downcast as he slipped out into the night, surrounded by people but with an unmistakable air of isolation. Who else but Sherlock could stand in a crowded room and still be completely alone?

"You won't find anything."

She whipped round, her lab coat swishing behind her as she came face to face with Sherlock Holmes.

He took a few steps closer, glancing down at the body. "Simple hit and run, no suspicious behaviour. No need to do anything resembling detective work, I think you'll find the traffic camera situated on the upper eastern wall of the adjacent multi-storey will have more than adequate coverage of the incident to locate the driver."

Molly nodded, scribbling down a few more notes at the bottom of the form before pulling the sheet back up to cover the body. She glanced up at the consulting detective's face, biting her lip.

"So… not been out much recently?" she said quietly, organising the completed stack of paperwork.

He frowned, cocking his head to the side slightly. "How did you know?"

Her eyes widened. He really hadn't looked at himself in a mirror for a while. "Well, the three-day stubble and the fact that you're still wearing your tux from the wedding gave it away, to be honest."

Sherlock looked down at his outfit, bewildered. He hadn't even noticed- he'd barely had time to kick off his shoes and loosen his tie before he'd lost himself in the rambling corridors of his mind palace.

Molly noticed his expression and sighed. When would this ridiculous man learn to take care of himself? She walked over to the table at the other end of the room and scooped up the rest of the files she'd been completing. "Come on. I need to fill all these in- we can go to the lab for a bit."

He gave an almost imperceptible nod and swept out of the room, Molly close on his heels.

* * *

><p>"So why did you leave?"<p>

Molly looked up from her paperwork to where Sherlock was milling about at the other side of the lab, eyeing up the various bottles of chemicals as if wondering what kind of experiments to conduct next. He glanced back at her, blinking several times. "Hm?" he mumbled.

She raised her eyebrow. He really was distracted today. "I asked you why you left. The wedding, I mean."

"How's Tom?" he said quickly, sidestepping the question with less than his usual finesse.

Molly shook her head slightly, turning back to the papers and letting the matter drop. If Sherlock didn't want to discuss it then no line of questioning would convince him. She weighed up the pros and cons of telling the truth or a little white lie just to simplify matters, but in the end she put down her pen and crossed her arms, leaning back on her chair.

"Could be better."

He leaned against the counter, raising his eyebrow. "Not good?"

"I wouldn't say that," she said, racking her brains for the right way to put it. "He's lovely. I mean, he's sweet and I care about him but… Well, he's…"

She trailed off. Sherlock watched her carefully.

"He's what?"

She sighed, meeting his eyes. "Well, I suppose you could say he's… boring."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "Boring?"

Molly nodded. She felt awful for saying it, but it was the truth. Tom loved her, he cared about her, and he was safe and warm and wonderful in so many ways. Exactly the type of person she'd always thought she wanted.

Sherlock's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed as he considered something. "I don't understand- I was under the impression that a steady relationship was what you desired."

She shook her head, lowering her eyes. "Maybe what I want isn't quite as simple as I'd hoped…"

He nodded, but she could tell he was still confused. She didn't blame him. She was contradicting herself, and she should have known he wouldn't be able to make much sense of the new information. Still, it felt good to get her concerns off her chest for once- she couldn't walk down the aisle knowing that she would never have another chance to voice her worries.

She shrugged, smiling slightly. "I suppose domestic life isn't all it's cracked up to be."

His lips quirked up into a smirk. "Nothing ever is."

She smirked back, picking up her pen and returning to her work. Sherlock continued to pace around, his long fingers brushing across the counter as he made a circuit around the room. He was so quiet it would have been easy enough to get lost in the heaps of paperwork and forget he was even there.

Or at least it would have been, had he not moments later dropped onto a stool across from her, steepling his hands beneath his chin as his elbows came to rest on the table, making Molly jump at his sudden proximity. His blue-green eyes met hers firmly.

"I couldn't find a partner," he said bluntly.

Molly blinked, shaking her head slightly. "What?"

"At the wedding. I couldn't find anyone to dance with, and so I left," he clarified with the slightest shrug of his shoulders.

She stared at him in disbelief. "Is that all? You couldn't find a dance partner so you left the whole reception? I didn't even know you _liked_ dancing!"

He gave her a little half smile. "On the contrary, I love it. Not much call for it in the detecting business, unfortunately."

She barely suppressed her giggle. She cleared her throat, her face falling slightly as another thought crossed her mind. "Well, what about that bridesmaid? The one you were talking to?"

"Janine?" he said, confused.

She nodded. "Yeah, her," she saw his puzzled expression and laughed. "You're not the only one who notices things, you know."

His eyes brightened. "Evidently not. And no, Janine was otherwise engaged at the time."

Molly put down her pen again and leaned across the table slightly, meeting his eyes. Funny, she'd never felt confident enough to do that before the fall. How times change.

"So that was the only reason? You didn't have anyone to dance with, and that's the only reason you left?"

He nodded, but he was hiding something. She could see it in his eyes. She considered nagging him about it, but she let it go.

He'd tell her when he was ready.

Molly clicked her tongue and stood up, crossing over to the sink in the corner of the room. A decrepit radio sat on the shelf above it. It had been there for years, so rusty and out-of-date it could only pick up one channel- a fairly unpopular jazz and blues station- from time to time. If the lab was quiet, she and any other pathologists stuck on the graveyard shift would turn it on to alleviate the silence. She felt Sherlock watching her as she reached up to flick the switch, turning the dial until the volume went up as loud as it could go. The end of an obscure jazz number crackled through the ancient speakers. Molly smiled and turned round to meet Sherlock's bewildered gaze.

She shrugged. "What? You said you liked dancing, didn't you?"

He stood up, sliding his hands into his pockets and crossing over to her, his head tilted slightly at an inquisitive angle. "Are you suggesting we dance?"

She smiled. "Yes."

"In a laboratory?"

"We'll be careful not to knock stuff over!"

He raised his eyebrow, looking bemused. "Why would you want to dance with me?"

She gave him a withering look, holding out her hand as the song ended. "That might be the silliest thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth."

He frowned, but he took her hand all the same. "I'm not sure I follow you."

She felt the blood rush to her cheeks as his hand took her own, and she felt giddy as the next song began to play and she rested her other hand on his shoulder. She couldn't stop the grin that spread across her face from ear to ear as she felt his left hand settle hesitantly on her waist.

"Then maybe you should lead," she said in what she hoped was a smooth and seductive tone but most likely sounded like a schoolgirl-ish giggle.

If she did sound absurd, he didn't say so. Instead he tightened his grip on her hand and tapped his foot slightly as the opening bars played, acquainting himself with the rhythm before leading her in a dance.

"Louis Jordan, 1944," he said absently, looking just over Molly's shoulder as if afraid to look her in the eye. "I do have a somewhat limited knowledge of jazz music, although it's never interested me quite as much as the classic composers- Mozart, Chopin, Bach…"

Molly chewed her lip to bite back a laugh. Even now he found it impossible to shut off the endless stream of trivia in his mind. She swayed with him, attempting to suppress her giddy euphoria long enough to say something.

"Sorry, by the way," she said.

He looked down at her with a frown. "For what?"

She shrugged. "For not dancing with you last time we had the chance."

He smiled. "Hardly your fault, Molly Hooper- you were a little preoccupied last time I saw you."

"I wouldn't exactly describe dancing with Tom as 'preoccupied'" she said with a grin. "His dance moves are about as good as his deductions."

He chuckled, the sound so wonderful and unexpected it sent her heart racing.

"Meat dagger," he sniggered.

Molly wasn't sure if it was the outright ridiculousness of Tom's comment or just the way it rolled uncharacteristically from Sherlock's lips like stilted innuendo, but before she knew it she was laughing as well.

Sherlock's face broke into a wide grin, and Molly squeaked as he released her waist and spun her round, pulling her back against his body before she could collide with the counter. She beamed dizzily as her hand came back into contact with his shoulder.

"Nice moves," she said breathlessly.

He replaced his hand on her waist and winked. "I told you I loved dancing."

"You should do it more often!"

He shrugged. "Well like I said, not much call for it in my line of work."

"You could always do it for fun," she suggested. "You know, fun? That thing people have while you're off catching murderers?"

He narrowed his eyes. "I don't understand- I thought that _was_ fun."

She giggled. "Well, each to their own," she said lightly.

Sherlock smiled, leading her around for one last spin as the song drew ever closer to its finish.

"I hope you'll be happy, Molly Hooper," he said softly, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Whatever you do."

She felt her eyes water a little as she gripped his hand tighter.

"I'll do my best," she whispered.

Their eyes met and their smiles matched as they let the music carry them along, right to the last bar.

"_Is you is or is you ain't my baby?_

_Maybe baby's found somebody new?_

_Or is my baby still my baby true?"_

* * *

><p>"I don't count."<p>

For the second time that day, Sherlock found himself face to face with mind palace Molly, her cheerful yellow dress shimmering brightly, contrasting almost poetically with the sadness in her eyes.

Sherlock took a step forward, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the floor.

"You've always counted, Molly Hooper," he said quietly.

He raised his head to meet her gaze, smiling slightly as he caught site of the ridiculous bow in her hair.

"You know I'm not one for sentiment, Molly," he said. A rather unpromising start, really. "Friendship and love have always confused me and I imagine always will. But as much as I sometimes wish I could continue my cold, indifferent life in the manner to which I have become accustomed…"

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "Well, put it this way- for the past three days I have been alone in my flat, living in almost complete silence, as was the case nearly every day before I met you or John or Gary-"

"Greg," Molly interjected.

"Or Greg," Sherlock corrected himself, giving her a stern no-more-interruptions look before continuing. "But despite the fact that I often complain about the noise and distraction of other people, I spent my first three days of peace and quiet doing nothing but wondering where John and Mary were, what you and Tom were doing, and generally considering whether or not any of you had a place for me in your lives anymore.

"The point I'm trying to make is that while I may be an insensitive, emotionally stunted arsehole… somehow, somewhere, you got under my skin."

Mind palace Molly bit her lip and smiled, toying absentmindedly with the glittering engagement ring on her finger. Sherlock silently wished he could imagine that blasted thing away, but he wasn't one to omit important details.

"I know that a lot of people simply assume that I'm incapable of sentiment- bonds of friendship or trust that most people crave in their day to day existence, but the truth is that's not nor has it ever been the case. I know that I often come across as cold and indifferent, but as hard as I may try to convince people otherwise, I'm only human. I can feel things just like anyone else. The difference is that I've never wanted or even known how to show other people how much they mean to me…"

He took a deep breath and reached forward, taking Molly's hand and looking back down at the floor.

"I've treated you horribly in the past, Molly," he said without looking up, feeling his cheeks begin to burn. "I've used and belittled you, I've taken advantage of your feelings for me on multiple occasions. You deserve better. And as much as it pains me to admit it, I may never be the man you deserve. Chances are I will never truly be able to show you how important you are. A part of me is happy that you've got on with your life. In the end, I think the only thing I can do to show you how much you matter to me is to let you go. In the end, I just want you to be happy…"

He looked up, meeting her doe-brown eyes. "Are you happy now, Molly Hooper?"

Mind palace Molly smiled warmly, reaching up to place her hands behind his neck.

"Maybe you should stop talking to yourself and ask me."

She pulled his head down and kissed him gently, and when she pulled away he could have sworn he saw tears in her eyes.

* * *

><p>Two weeks later, Sherlock found himself back in the morgue at St. Bart's.<p>

To his confusion, Molly didn't seem to be around. He checked the lab, still finding no trace of her. He could have sworn she was supposed to be in work today- perhaps she'd called in sick. He checked the canteen, trying to suppress his disappointment when she wasn't there. He wasn't entirely sure why he'd come today of all days. He just wanted to see her.

There was one place he hadn't checked.

He hesitated outside the door to the locker room. He remembered the one other time he'd been here, nearly seven months ago. The first time he'd seen Molly in two long years. He remembered how happy he'd been to hear her voice again.

He could hear her sighing behind the wall. He took a deep breath and gently pushed open the door.

Molly was standing next to her locker, pulling on her lab coat. Her hair was dishevelled, like she'd tied it in a rush, and her clothes were a little more mismatched than usual. She turned to face him, and he noticed she wasn't wearing any make-up. She didn't look unattractive, or even particularly sad- she just looked like a woman who was fed up of keeping up appearances.

He raised a questioning eyebrow, and she shrugged. She slid her left arm into the lab coat, and as her hand emerged from the sleeve Sherlock noticed a certain diamond-studded band was missing from her finger. His eyes travelled down to the floor around her locker, and the hastily packed bags covering it.

He stepped forward and aided her in untangling the other side of her coat, helping her arm through the sleeve. She muttered a thank you and straightened the collar, slamming her locker shut.

"Work to do?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice impassive.

She nodded, picking up her bags and standing on tiptoes to stack them atop the lockers.

Sherlock shook his head. "Breakfast first."

She turned to him, frowning. "What?"

"Well, judging from the fact that you did your hair in a rush and you haven't put on any of your usual make-up or co-ordinated your outfit suggests that you left in a hurry this morning, presumably after breaking off your engagement with Tom and packing your bags in a hurry. That you had so much to do in such a limited time frame combined with the fact that you've been known to forget to eat if you're stressed or in a hurry suggests that you probably haven't eaten yet this morning. That and the fact that your stomach just made an incredibly conspicuous growling noise."

She glowered at him. "You know, seeing as I've just broken up with my fiancé, been kicked out of the house and am temporarily homeless, you might think about being nice to me for once."

"I am being nice," he said, sliding an arm around her shoulder and marching her out into the corridor and towards the canteen. "Can't have you fainting from hunger in the middle of an autopsy now, can we?"

"Sherlock, I'm going to be late for-"

"Doesn't matter," he cut her off, steering her down the hall. "I'm sure the corpses can wait half an hour."

She looked up at him, suspicious. "Sherlock Holmes, are you telling me to shirk my responsibilities for my own health? How very out of character."

He chuckled, his hand tightening on her shoulder.

It was hardly a grand romantic gesture, but it was a start.

"Molly," he said, thinking back to the bags in the locker room.

"Yes?" she asked, curious.

He smiled.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

* * *

><p><strong>Well, I hope it wasn't too awful!<strong>

**Don't worry, fellow Valdangelo shipmates, the fic will be up soon- hopefully after I'm done crying over HLV!**

**And if any Sherlolly shippers actually liked the way this was written (unlikely) feel free to send me some prompts, I might write more of these two! :D**

**Until next time! **

**EDIT: In answer to several questions, yes I will be continuing this! Obviously I published this before HLV, but having seen that episode there are so many things I could write about so I've decided to extend this one-shot into a multi-chapter! I should warn you though that it won't be keeping strictly in canon with the episode (for a start Molly's already left Tom and she's living with Sherlock in this, so obviously things shave shifted somewhat! The timescales have also skewed a little, but I'll try to keep to the canon where it counts!) I should also warn you that later chapters may become angsty- let's face it, there aren't many ways to write about drug addiction, gunshot wounds and strangely adorable psychopaths without writing angst! It'll all come right in the end though :) I got a bit carried away with planning and I'm estimating this to come out at about eight chapters (assuming I don't turn super lazy and fail to complete it, but I shall try and resist the temptation to give up!) So, if you can still be bothered to read my scribbles I'll see you then! :D**


	2. Chapter 2: Being Yourself

**Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me!**

**Well, hello, dearest Sherlollians! I'm writing this from my sofa with one hand while eating a frankly disgustingly huge cake in celebration of my 18th birthday (and in mourning for the childhood I feel like I never had, but I won't drag you down with the gloomy details!) with the other. As you can probably tell I am an immensely attractive and photogenic person xD**

**So, as a birthday present to myself, I decided to spend a night doing solid writing so I could spend my day and my big weekend in London feeling like a weight has been lifted! So, finally, here it is- the possibly terrible second chapter of Are You Happy Now, Molly Hooper? !**

**I should warn you that this story was originally intended as a one-shot, so the plot might go a little bit skewed in places- but I wrote the first one before HLV and decided I really wanted to cover some of the events of that amazing episode! Although I'm kind of considering this story a UA (universe alteration) as Molly now lives with Sherlock in this version, and I should also mention that the timeline of HLV events is now a bit different- I had to space things out a bit more for it to make sense. I'm sorry if it turned out to be a complete mess :/ If you want to hear some of my headcanons for the characters read the notes at the end of the story! If not, well, fair enough they're not very good xD**

**Trigger warning: Contains implied drug use! (I should also mention I don't know much about drugs or drug dens so if I get anything wrong or you know ways I can improve please let me know! I'd also appreciate any knowledge you can spare on drug withdrawal symptoms as I hope to write a chapter or two around that, I don't think HLV really covered that well enough.)**

**Disclaimer: The characters belong to ACD and Moftiss, I own nothing and do this purely out of love for the series!**

**Enjoy! :D**

* * *

><p>"So, when did the troubles start- was it with 'meat dagger', or was it closer to the incident with the fork?" Sherlock asked, taking a long sip of tea.<p>

Molly smirked at him over her mug, placing it carefully back on the saucer and tucking her feet up beneath her, jostling Toby as she did so. The cat woke with a jump, but returned to sleep against his owner's side as she settled into position, his back pressed against her thigh. "You do realise both of those things took place less than five minutes apart?"

Sherlock shrugged, taking a bite of one of the biscuits Mrs. Hudson had brought for them. "You'd be surprised at how often five minutes can make all the difference."

"Hmm," she mused, blowing the steam off the piping-hot surface of her tea and taking a wary sip. "Well, if you must know 'meat dagger' was a turning point for me," she said, wincing as the boiling liquid bit into her taste buds. "But I don't think Tom was too happy about the stabbing, to be honest…"

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, taking another bite. "Understandable. From what I understand about human interaction and body language, the use of a fork or indeed any other sharp implement to stab one's beloved in the hand is hardly tantamount to a display of affection."

Molly raised her eyebrow. "You don't say."

The consulting detective smirked, his eyes wondering to Molly's sock-clad toes hanging over the edge of her chair. Well, John's chair, but he didn't have much use for it anymore. His former flatmate had moved on.

His new flatmate, he noted with amusement, had the most ridiculous socks he'd ever seen. Bright orange, fluffy, covered with the embroidered shapes of many-coloured, somewhat startled looking cartoon hedgehogs. It was the first time he'd had a chance to see what she wore beneath her warm boots and comfortable trainers- and naturally he'd used his newly acquired knowledge of her hosiery choices to further his study of her behaviour.

All of her socks were similar in style- bright, colourful, not always cutesy but always flamboyant in some shape or form, quite the opposite of the type of clothes he'd grown accustomed to seeing her wear in past years. During the first few years of their acquaintance, most of Molly's normal clothes were understated; shirts in shades of muted green and blue, plain beige trousers, everything practical and nothing frivolous. It wasn't until after he'd returned to London after his two year absence that he'd seen her wearing the bright colours that seemed to match her personality. It wasn't until she'd moved into Baker Street that he realised just how much of her wardrobe was comprised of colourful clothes, many of them several years old, all deliberately hidden away and never worn in the morgue in the years he'd known her. The only familiar sliver of colour he saw was the fluffy band of orange he'd once seen peeking out from beneath her trouser leg one day when she'd had to stand on her tiptoes to reach a file.

The socks.

He was still considering the implications of her clothing choices when she cleared her throat loudly, calling his mind back to the present and his eyes back up to her face.

"Sherlock, were you staring at my socks?" she said incredulously, tugging down the hems of her pyjama bottoms to cover her feet, eliciting another grumpy meow from Toby as she shifted her position, but not before Sherlock noticed her toes curl beneath the fluffy orange wool.

He smiled slightly. "Just making an observation. Biscuit?"

She frowned, her eyes narrowing as he held the plate out to her. Eventually she sighed and took one, dropping the issue. He noticed she did that a lot. He wasn't quite sure yet whether it was because she knew pursuing the matter was a lost cause, because she knew he'd tell her what he was thinking if and when he felt ready, or because she simply wasn't interested. Perhaps a combination of the three?

She chewed her biscuit and smiled, cocking her head to the side. "I'm surprised you haven't deleted this conversation yet. Isn't this the kind of thing you consider a waste of mind palace space?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow, lowering his mug. "What do you mean?"

Molly shrugged, sipping her tea. "Well, this talk _was_ over two weeks ago, is there really any reason to be holding on to it?"

The consulting detective smiled sadly, placing his cup down on the table. It wasn't the first time the accuracy of his memories had got the better of him.

"Maybe _because_ it was over two weeks ago, Molly Hooper," he said.

Mind palace Molly disappeared, and once again John's chair was empty. Sherlock sat alone in 221B, with nothing but the soft click of Toby's claws on the counter for company.

"How time flies…"

* * *

><p><span><strong>Part 2: Being Yourself<strong>

* * *

><p><em>How is it I <em>always _get stuck with the washing up?_

Molly sighed as yet another dribble of lukewarm dishwater wormed its way over the top of her rubber gloves, trickling down her skin unpleasantly. At least at her mother's house the dishes weren't covered in corrosive chemicals and human remains, although she'd be lying if she said she didn't find Sherlock's experiments far more interesting than leftover shepherd's pie.

She shook herself, peeling off the rubber gloves and considering what it said about her personality that she wasn't fazed by the consulting detective's grisly investigations. It wasn't like she was a stranger to blood and gore- her job literally required her to dig around in fresh corpses, after all- but she never realised how completely desensitised she'd become, so much so that she did little more than mutter under her breath the first time she opened the fridge and found a bag of toes next to the cheddar.

Well, everyone has their hobbies.

"We all do silly things…" she muttered, biting her lip and smiling.

"Yes."

She sighed as her thoughts once again turned to Sherlock Holmes, quietly cursing herself. Molly didn't have a mind palace, but if she did she knew just who the king would be. Not that she'd ever tell him that, of course- his ego was quite big enough already.

She thought back to that day in the lab, almost three years ago. Mere days after the Christmas she'd sworn to forget. Sherlock looked up from the screen and the x-ray image of the phone, his eyes brightening and his face breaking into a sly smile as he turned to meet her eyes.

"They _do_, don't they? Very silly…" he said, leaping up from his seat and bounding over to the x-ray machine, imbued with a fresh sense of purpose. Molly couldn't help smiling at the memory, even though at the time she'd been completely bewildered- not to mention consumed with jealousy over the mysterious woman whose phone Sherlock was taking such an interest in. Looking back on it now she just grinned at his enthusiasm, replaying the moment over and over in her head before he tapped the wrong code into the phone and his face turned sour.

"_They_…" she muttered, chuckling. "All this time and you're still excluding yourself from humanity-"

She trailed off, frowning as she once again repeated the words in her head.

"_They _do- why would you say _they_?" she thought aloud, twisting her gloves between her fingers and making the bright yellow rubber squeak.

She was no stranger to Sherlock's attempts to omit himself from humankind, but something about the wording bothered her. She'd been standing there, right in front of him. He'd even turned to look at her as he'd said it. He'd said '_they_'.

"Why not 'you'?" she wondered, barely pausing to consider how insane she would sound if her flu-ridden mother shuffled in and found her talking to herself. "I was standing right in front of you- why wouldn't you say '_you_ do'?"

She muttered quietly and shook her head, pulling her gloves back on and returning to the scrubbing, trying and failing to banish the thought from her head.

She wasn't surprised that Sherlock considered himself separate from his fellow humans.

What surprised her was the fact that, for a moment, he talked to her like she was too.

* * *

><p>Sherlock groaned, dropping the papers into his lap in a huff, trying to think past the rotten taste in his mouth.<p>

_Charles Augustus Magnussen_. Even the name was enough to turn his stomach. A part of him had hoped he would never be approached with a case involving the man- and honestly he never thought anyone would dare, the blackmailer had every person of consequence in the country and possibly the world under his thumb. Sherlock wasn't sure if he should admire the courage or lament the stupidity of Lady Smallwood in bringing her case to his attention, but despite his better judgement he never could resist a difficult case. The game was on.

He looked up from the tedious heap of research and his eyes flickered immediately to John's chair- or Molly's chair, as he often found himself calling it. In many situations he found that their names became interchangeable, an unfortunate habit when the wrong name slipped out at the wrong time. He often wondered how to convince Molly it wasn't a bad thing when he accidentally called her by the wrong name when they were out on a case, but even taking into account the immense impact John Watson had had on his life and the high regard in which he held them both, he had to admit confusing his friends' names was an incredibly careless blunder on his part.

He cursed as he once again slipped into his mind palace, standing just outside the room he'd been visiting more and more frequently of late. He sighed and pushed open the door, feeling a warm yellow glow envelope him as he crossed the threshold.

Molly Hooper's room was smaller than the Watsons', but no less important. It looked like the lab at St. Bart's, but the lighting was cheerier, warm sunlight streaming through wide open windows and colliding oddly with the twinkle of Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling panels. He didn't know exactly when he'd come to associate Christmas with Molly Hooper, but the memory of one particular Christmas with her set his stomach on edge as a familiar feeling of guilt washed over him.

He shook off the memory quickly. Now wasn't the time to be dwelling on such things- he'd come to the Molly room for encouragement, not a paralysing wave of remorse. Plenty of time for that when he didn't have such a pressing case.

He focused instead on the figure dancing in the middle of the room, her feet stepping quickly across the bleak vinyl floor to the upbeat jazz tunes of Louis Jordan. Funny how Sherlock couldn't seem to shake this song from his head since that one time they'd danced to it- it was exactly the sort of extraneous data he usually made an effort to delete when it no longer served a purpose.

Mind palace Molly was dressed the way she was that day in the lab- long hair tied back into a ponytail, simple trousers and a cosy green jumper visible beneath her lab coat. The only thing different was that yellow bow in her hair from John's wedding. For some reason mind palace Molly never seemed to take the blasted thing off.

She noticed him and smiled, spinning around in a little circle on the spot before coming back face to face with him, her eyes sparkling. "I was wondering when you'd be back!"

He shrugged nonchalantly, trying to ignore the little jump his heart did when he met her eyes. "It's _my_ mind palace."

She chuckled, turning the volume down on the crackly radio and sitting back down at her workbench, flipping a stray strand of hair out of her eyes as she turned back to her work. "Don't you have something you should be working on right now?"

Sherlock scowled, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. "I didn't come for a lecture."

Mind palace Molly glanced up at him, cocking her head to the side. "Well, why are you here?"

"I have every right to walk the corridors of my own mind palace, thank you very much," he huffed.

"Oh, I know- just seems unusual that you would find yourself in this room of all rooms," she said lightly, turning back to her papers with a smirk. "What is it you always say about coincidence?"

"The universe is rarely so lazy," Sherlock blurted by force of habit, trying to ignore the smug look on mind palace Molly's face. He sighed, shrugging away from the wall and sitting in the seat opposite her, bringing his elbows to rest on the table between them. She put down her pen and watched him expectantly.

"Do you still consider yourself unimportant?" he asked bluntly, meeting her gaze.

She shrugged. "Isn't that a question you should be asking the _real _Molly? As a manifestation of your own subconscious I hardly feel qualified to provide an accurate answer."

He grimaced as he heard his own vernacular sliding from mind palace Molly's mouth. As much as her slight stammer irritated him from time to time, he had to admit he'd grown accustomed to her way of speaking. "Do speak like yourself," he said flatly, resting his chin on his knuckles.

Mind palace Molly smiled knowingly. "Missing me already?"

He rolled his eyes, but tilted his head slightly towards her as he lowered his hands. "The flat's too quiet- bad news for brainwork."

She raised her eyebrow. "Funny- a few years ago you would've said the opposite."

"Well- after spending such a long time in the vicinity of John Watson and his numerous acquaintances, one does get accustomed to a certain amount of background noise," he said flippantly.

She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly. Sherlock struggled to ignore how strangely appealing the delicate smile lines were against her soft face.

_Stop it, _he chastised himself, tearing his eyes away from the endearing creases and back to the eyes themselves, the deep brown orbs rolling slightly. She knew what he'd just been doing- of course she did. Fortunately she decided not to mention his fascination with her features and instead returned to the original topic of conversation.

"'Background noise', is that how you'd describe us?"

"Depends who falls into the category of 'us'," he said evasively.

"You know who I mean, Sherlock- John, Mrs Hudson, Myself, Mary," she said, averting her eyes back to her paperwork. "I suppose that's what everyone is to you, isn't it? We're all just distractions in the end."

Sherlock gave her withering look. "You know better than anyone that that's not the case."

She hummed softly, glancing up at him momentarily. "Well of course _I _do- I am after all an element of your unconscious mind, the fact that I look like Molly Hooper is really here nor there, is it?"

"I'm quite aware of what you are, you don't need to keep going on about it," Sherlock snapped.

Mind palace Molly's grin widened. "So irritable today, Sherlock- are you missing me that much?"

She looked back up at him, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin against her hand. "Perhaps you should give me a call- why loiter around with mind palace me when you could be talking to the real me? I bet I'm bored stiff at mum's- there's a reason I rarely spend Christmas with her, you know. How long have I been away looking after her now? A week?"

"Eleven days," Sherlock said. "Unfortunately I'm in the middle of what's proving to be a rather delicate and possibly dangerous case, I see no point in distracting myself from it now that I actually have a few weeks of peace and quiet in which to work."

"Right, of course, working," she agreed sarcastically, raising an eyebrow. "No point in phoning up your favourite distraction, eh? Wouldn't want the background noise."

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "You were a lot nicer last time I talked to you."

"Last time you talked to me you were in a catatonic state of melancholy," she said matter-of-factly, crossing her arms. "Your brain was wallowing in a sea of hormones and emotional turmoil, not to mention a considerable amount of uncharacteristically soppy thoughts of romance," she cocked her head to the side. "How's that been going for you, by the way?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock said bluntly.

"Come on, Sherlock," she coaxed. "We had a very long chat about this last time. A chat which, if I remember rightly, ended in apologies, confessions and a surprisingly passionate imaginary kiss- exactly how much of that exchange made the transition to reality?"

He ignored the question, narrowing his eyes at her. "You never answered my question. So, _do_ you still consider yourself unimportant?"

She shrugged, chewing her lip. "Well, obviously I can't speak for real Molly but… well, you have called me _John_ on more than one occasion."

He cringed. "Would you believe me if I told you that was my own clumsy way of paying you a compliment?"

Mind palace Molly leaned forward expectantly. "You're going to need some pretty hard evidence to back that one up."

"It really is," Sherlock insisted, meeting her gaze firmly. "I know I don't always make it clear, but… you really do count."

She snorted. "I know I _count, _Sherlock," she smiled, rolling her eyes. "I'd have to be pretty thick to not realise that by now."

She pushed back from the desk, standing up and sliding her hands into her lab coat pockets as she wondered across the room to the window, the late afternoon sunlight illuminating her features. She kept talking, not looking back at him as he rose from his seat and moved to stand beside her.

"I know that I count to you, even if you have a bloody weird way of showing it sometimes."

Sherlock stared at her as the light shined in her doe-brown eyes, her profile stark against the pale walls of the lab as the sun shone on her skin and glimmered on the strands of hair that escaped her neat ponytail. Her lips quirked up into a smile.

"You don't really open up with your feelings the way other people do- some people might express their gratitude to me with hugs or kisses, they might offer to take me out to dinner or to a film or even just ask me to come around for a chat because they miss me. But I know that's not how you work- you call me when you need me, and that's just the way it is. Sometimes you call me and I know it's because you want to see me or thank me or something else silly and sentimental like that, but you disguise it as work and honestly…" she shrugged, turning her head towards him slightly and raising her eyes to his. "Honestly, I don't mind. Not anymore. Because I know."

She stretched her hand out towards him, curling her fingers around his and letting their intertwined hands hang between them. She looked down at them and smiled, stroking her thumb over the back of his hand.

"I know I count, Sherlock. I know I matter to you, even if it's not in the way I always hoped for. I'm happy enough just to be your friend, and I think I resigned myself long ago to the fact that that might be all I can ever be to you."

Sherlock looked up from her hand wrapped in his to look at her face. He swallowed nervously, suddenly realising how dry his mouth had become.

"Then how can you possibly consider yourself unimportant?" He asked, his voice hoarse.

"I wouldn't say unimportant," she said, smiling up at him and sweeping a flyaway curl off his forehead. "Maybe just… not as important as some."

She carefully took a hold of his chin and turned his face around. His eyes moved to the figure standing in the doorway.

John Watson smiled at them, raising a hand in greeting. His other hand hung by his side, wrapped protectively around the delicate hand of Mary Morstan. They both grinned at Molly and Sherlock, leaning closer into each other as they continued on their way, disappearing from view as they continued their endless patrol along the corridors of Sherlock's mind palace. Rather like Molly, the two of them rarely seemed to remain in their own room anymore.

He frowned, his eyes flickering back to mind palace Molly's face, reading her expression carefully. "Is that what you think you are? A replacement?"

She shrugged again. "From time to time," she giggled uncertainly. The action confused him for a moment- he hadn't heard her sound uncertain like that since before the fall. She smiled nervously. "You do call me John a _lot._"

"It's not like that," he said quickly, his grip on her hand tightening. She looked up at him expectantly.

"I…" he said, fumbling for the right words. "I trust you. Both of you. More than I've ever trusted anyone, in fact. I trusted you to help me fake my death, didn't I? I trusted you to keep it a secret, and not once throughout those two years did I think you'd let me down."

She smiled warmly and rested her hand on his arm gently. "And I never will. I'll always be there for you, Sherlock, and you can always trust me. I'm just saying it wouldn't hurt to act like you actually want to see me from time to time."

"I do want to see you," he said quickly, looking away from her and back towards the doorway. John had disappeared once again.

"Maybe you could just say that once in a while."

Sherlock snapped out of his mind palace and back to reality with a jolt, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the natural light pouring through the window. The first thing he saw was John and Molly's abandoned chair, cold and desolate against the empty flat.

His eyes turned back down to the papers in his lap.

He wished they were here. Especially Molly. Maybe he'd feel better about this whole case if she was here to encourage him- oddly enough he found watching her work or cook or even just lie around with Toby on her lap incredibly conducive to his thinking.

He looked down at the photo at the top of the stack and sighed.

No, he didn't want Molly here. Not to see what he was about to do.

_It's for the case, _he told himself silently as he picked up his phone and entered the number written next to the photo. _There's really no other way._

He pressed dial and held the phone to his ear. It rang four times before being answered by a female voice with a lilting Irish accent.

Sherlock put on a smile that didn't reach his eyes and adopted a false air of cheerfulness.

"Hello, Janine," he said brightly. "Remember me?"

* * *

><p>Molly closed the door to her mother's room softly, waiting until it was closed completely before she let her grin spread across her face.<p>

It had been three weeks since Angeline Hooper had fallen ill. It was only the flu, but considering she was in her sixties and had never been vaccinated she was a high-risk patient. Molly had never got along very well with her mother, but with no other siblings to turn to she'd taken the first train she could catch to Brighton to look after her ailing parent as best she could. She owed her that much, although it had broken her heart to ditch Sherlock when things were going so well and he was finally getting some interesting cases again, especially with John away with his new wife.

Now, after twenty days, a course of antibiotics and more Lemsips and boxes of tissues than she could count, her mother was finally showing signs of improvement. Another week or so and she'd be up and about again, the doctors reckoned. The news was music to Molly's ears- the sooner her mum could get out of bed and get moving by herself again, the sooner Molly could return to 221B Baker Street and her favourite consulting detective. She knew how dangerous it was to leave him alone for too long- unless he'd found himself a truly riveting case to occupy his time he was probably shooting at the walls at this very moment. That poor old wallpaper didn't stand a chance with him as a tenant.

Molly practically skipped down to the kitchen, humming cheerily as she set the kettle boiling. Nothing like a cup of tea to celebrate her good mood (not that Molly needed a reason- even without the good news there was never a wrong time to drink tea). She collected the milk and sugar she needed whilst considering her new-found appreciation of the saying 'absence makes the heart grow fonder'.

It's not that she expected everything to be wonderful when she got home. Sherlock would still be Sherlock, after all. Grumpy, sulky, impatient old Sherlock. He didn't make any special allowances for her for the mere fact that they were flatmates- if anything living with the man full-time had alerted her to several irritating truths she had never before considered. Things like his habit of zoning out for hours on end and talking to her without noticing she'd left the room (boy, did he like to snap when he thought she was just ignoring him), leaving his experiments in the fridge (Molly, for her part, had no problem with him using the fridge to store his spare body parts, but she'd prefer it if he'd at least put them on a separate shelf to the unpackaged food. It was only logical, really), and his unexpected habit of wandering around the apartment partially-or, once or twice, completely- naked. Molly didn't exactly have a problem with that last one, but the first time she'd looked up from her toast and jam and caught a glance of his bare bum for a split second before he pulled his bed sheet toga into place had really caught her off guard. The image of that frustratingly perfect arse had been burned into her retinas all day.

No, she knew that she would most likely only be greeted with his usual antics and possibly a few orders when she returned, but that didn't make her look forward to it any less. She loved spending time with Sherlock, despite his apparent indifference to her presence. In her own small way she felt like she'd carved out a niche for herself in Sherlock's world, even if she was just a piece of furniture in his chaotic life. Sometimes she felt like she might as well be that long-suffering wallpaper, ever present and yet constantly glossed over (and occasionally shot. And spray-painted. Okay, so not her most elegant metaphor.)

She often wondered if John had ever thought like this. Did he find himself melting into the background where Sherlock was concerned? He must have, just once or twice. No one in the acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes could last out their friendship without getting the cold shoulder at least once. She didn't hold it against him. That was just the way of things with Sherlock, he didn't know any different. It was progress that he was at least making room in his life for people now, even if they were little more than furnishings. Well, maybe not all of them.

Molly snapped back to attention at the hiss of steam from the kettle. She mentally shook herself and poured the boiling water into her favourite mug from her childhood, still nestled in its corner of the shelf just as it had been when she left. She stirred the tea bag gently, smiling as the crystal clear water slowly turned rich honey gold. She loved making tea. She'd never been a huge fan of coffee, but she was often so in need of the caffeine boost before a busy day at work that she made herself a cup anyway and counted the hours until she could come home, perform her usual tea-making ritual and unwind in front of the TV with a full pot of hot, steamy perfection.

Her ritual had been updated since she'd moved to Baker Street. Now every day she'd come home, put the kettle on, and make two cups of steamy perfection. She'd drop two sugars into one and set it beside her eccentric flatmate, ruffling his hair and walking off. She'd discovered that tousling his hair was the most efficient way to snap him out of a trance- apparently he wasn't accustomed to hands tickling his scalp. Sometimes he'd mutter a thank you, but she'd already be on the sofa with the TV remote in hand and the steam from her cuppa wafting tantalisingly before her eyes. Sometimes she'd get so immersed in her tea-fuelled relaxation that she'd look up to find Sherlock up and moving, pacing as he considered a case or rapidly firing off texts. He frequently summoned John to aid him, and no sooner had the good doctor crossed the threshold of the flat that Sherlock was striding out, scarf tied and Belstaff swishing. John barely had time to roll his eyes and send Molly a smile before he turned on his heel and followed.

Molly smiled down at the glitter-encrusted unicorn frozen mid-gallop on the mug, breathing in the rich aroma and feeling the steam warm her face.

At least Sherlock had John.

Ever since the army doctor had entered his life, the change in Sherlock had been nothing short of extraordinary. Somehow that old warhorse had brought the detached detective into the real world, and even kept him there. She smiled every time she saw them, running around like excitable children, their remarkable friendship sparking new life in them both. Since Sherlock returned to London the two of them had been joined at the hip, although from what she'd heard John had taken a few weeks off Sherlock duty to enjoy his honeymoon along with the first delirious newly-wed days in his and Mary's new home. She hoped Sherlock was coping on his own. Not that it would make much difference if she was there, she was really no replacement for John in the end.

"You're not being John, you're being yourself."

Molly smiled at the memory of his voice, replaying the words over and over again. She still wasn't convinced that he honestly valued her company and opinions in the same way that he valued John's, but it warmed her heart that he'd at least tried to ease her mind.

She gulped down the last of her tea and grinned, rinsing out the mug and skipping back to her old bedroom to get packing.

While she couldn't speak for the consulting detective, for Molly, home was where Sherlock Holmes was.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stared blankly at the peeling walls, absently tracking the scratches on the floor with his fingertips. His hands itched to retreat back into their usual position under his chin while he thought, but the action would look conspicuously out of character in his current situation.<p>

His back slumped against the grimy wall, his longs legs stretched across the scuffed and stained floorboards as he listened closely to the sounds of breathing surrounding him, sounding by turns both languorous and laboured. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw forms twitching in the gloom, their eyes either closed to the world or staring vacantly into the dark.

Sherlock clenched his fists, nails scraping against the boards. He swallowed back disgust at the sorry human beings, dosing themselves into oblivion night after night. Pitiful, just like he used to be. It felt uncomfortably like looking at himself from years ago in a grimy mirror.

_It's for the case, _he told himself repeatedly. It was for the case, that was why he was here and not back in the familiar walls of Baker Street, having tea with Mrs Hudson and Janine.

Janine.

He groaned, unconcerned about what the other people in the room would think- there was plenty of groaning going around as it was before he made his own contribution.

Janine was probably asleep in his bed at that very moment. The idea angered him, even though he'd brought it on himself. He'd called her fully knowing where it would lead, and no matter how many times he assured himself his investigation would fail if he were to end things now it still riled him. It had been all he could do to make up some quick excuse about waiting for marriage so he wouldn't have to get any more intimate with her than he already had. Just the fact that she insisted on sleeping in the same bed as him rubbed him up the wrong way.

If he told his friends about the way carrying on the relationship charade affected him, they would most likely assume he was just averse to the idea of sharing his personal space with anyone, particularly a member of the opposite sex. And to an extent they were correct- social interactions, romantic or otherwise, were a field in which his experience was severely limited.

What surprised him was that that wasn't the only reason for his discomfort.

Once again, his mind turned to Molly.

His friend, roommate and pathologist was still gone, stuck caring for an ailing mother whom she had no connection with in a town she'd left behind years ago. Picturing her smiling face and wide eyes made his gut twist with guilt at what he was doing in her absence, loitering in crack dens and stringing along yet another woman for his own benefit.

Part of him hoped Molly would come back tomorrow so he could just see her face again. The other half of him needed her far away so she wouldn't see him and be ashamed of him. He needed to keep Janine around for a bit longer, and he hoped he'd never have to see Molly's face when she found out.

He breathed in deeply, cringing as the foul smell hit his nostrils once again. He'd been coming here for the past three weeks, a few times a week at varying times, although mostly at night, when it was easier to sneak out without drawing attention to himself. It also gave him a somewhat unorthodox excuse to escape from Janine's incessant cuddling. He immediately hated himself for thinking it, but it was true. Being near her felt wrong, and any excuse to avoid her seemed like a blessing. He'd never been an advocate for affection at the best of times, but the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he kissed Janine was a new kind of discomfort. It was reluctance, shame. Guilt.

_It's for the case, _he silently pleaded as mind palace Molly stared expressionlessly back at him. He sighed, his eyelids drooping as he gave up and submitted to his inner turmoil, letting the guilt wash over him.

It wasn't like he was being unfaithful to her. They weren't together in any other capacity besides sharing a flat. All the same, he felt like he was betraying her trust. She seemed to think he'd grown as a person since she'd first met him, that he'd grown a softer side and started the transformation into a decent human being. If she only knew what he was doing now…

_It's for the case…_

_It's for a cause. You're trying to do what's right. You're on the side of the angels._

"But don't think for a second that I am one…" he whispered into the dark, the heavy shadows swallowing his voice the second the words hissed from his mouth.

He breathed in, and the smell hit him again. Stale, sour, stinking of unwashed bodies, fear and desperation. It was disgusting, appalling.

Familiar.

Oh, how well he knew that smell. How many times had he been the cause of it?

It whispered to him like an old friend, the darkness calling to him. _L'appel du vide_. Translation: the call of the void. That dark, primal impulse that rears its head as you stand on the cliff edge, urging you to take the leap. The voice in your head that tells you to take the most powerful course of action in your reach, even if the result is self-destruction. _Especially _if the result is self-destruction.

_It's for the case…_

* * *

><p>Molly grinned all the way to London, her smile never faltering as she alighted the train and not so much as a complaint crossing her mind as she was faced with the prospect of lugging several heavy suitcases all the way to Baker Street by herself. Instead she thought ahead to that first cup of tea back in her own living room, to her first cuddle with Toby in almost five weeks, to greeting her endearingly eccentric roommate and listening to him telling her about all the ridiculous adventures he'd no doubt been having in her absence. The thought of his steely eyes lighting up and his restless pacing warmed her heart in the most peculiar way, and suddenly the bags felt lighter than air.<p>

She was just gliding happily towards the entrance to the tube station when she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. Setting her bags down on the pavement, she fished it out and smiled as John's name flashed up on the screen. She hit receive and held it to her ear.

"John! So nice to hear from you- how was the honeymoon?"

"What? Yeah, yeah, it was great," his voice buzzed through the speaker, but he sounded troubled. Molly frowned as he continued, her happiness challenged by an ominous feeling of apprehension uncoiling in her stomach. "Molly… I hate to ask you this, but, are you back in London yet?"

"Yes, well, I just got off the train actually…"

She heard him mutter something and hiss through his teeth. "Wow, okay. Well, never mind, you should just get home and settle in. I'll call someone else, it's fine-"

"John!" she said firmly, trying to bite back the cold knot of fear that rose up in her throat. "John, what do you need, what's happened?"

There was a heavy silence on the line for a moment as John seemed to consider something. After five seconds that felt to Molly Hooper like a century, John spoke again.

"Is there any chance you could come to St. Bart's?"

"John…" she gulped. "What's happening?"

He spoke, and her blood ran cold.

"Sherlock needs a drug test."

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><p><strong>Da-da-DUUUUUMMMMMM!<strong>

**Sorry to leave it hanging on such a grim note, my dears, but let's face it- HLV was not a very happy episode!**

**Some stuff about the story: I know I talk about John and Sherlock a lot considering this is supposed to be a Sherlolly fic, but I think it seems careless to just leave John out of the equation because even if you don't ship them romantically you can't deny that they are pretty much each others' reason for living- The BrOTP to end all BrOTPs! I love them so much :3 I won't however be focusing on John as much as the episode did and most likely won't write about many of the John/Mary events as they happen, they'll probably be covered in trips to Sherlock's mind palace.**

**Speaking of which, I know the mind palace sequences in this story are very long and rambling, particularly where John and Molly are concerned. The reason for this is I don't picture Sherlock being vocal with his emotions at all, although I do imagine him being much more emotional than many people think. This is why most of his exploration of his feelings takes the form of conversations with mind palace Molly- it will be A LOT longer until he's comfortable enough to talk to the really Molly about all this emotional baggage! So I apologise if those scenes are pretty boring xD**

**While it is my intention for Molly and Sherlock to get together by the end of this fic, I should mention that I picture Sherlock as either gray-A or demisexual- I think he has desires and urges but he rarely experiences sexual attraction to other people, Molly being one of the exceptions (although at this point in the story I'd say his attraction is more romantic than sexual). I think that was one of the reasons why he was so reluctant to get intimate with Janine, guilt aside. So while I don't completely rule out the prospect of Sherlock having a romantic/sexual relationship, it's not gonna happen overnight! If this fic goes according to plan there should be seven chapters and an epilogue, so we'll see what happens! (Although I'm gonna warn you right now that I do not write smut. To be honest I'm kind of asexual, too, and it makes me uncomfortable xD)**

**So, that's basically what's going on! I'm really sorry if this chapter was awful, but I'm not very good with long fics. if the plot goes completely awry, feel free to just read the first chapter and pretend it's still a one-shot xD**

**Well, I'm off to eat junk food and watch Host Club! Like the SEVENTEEN year-old I am! *manic laughter* hehe, ah, I'm in denial...**

**See you next time! :D**


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